


I am Brought to Life

by baskervilleain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baskervilleain/pseuds/baskervilleain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After failing to make it work with Mary, John asks Sherlock if he can move back in to Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am Brought to Life

The front door opens downstairs, hesitantly, slowly.  
I wait.  
Tired footsteps begin the journey up the flight of seventeen stairs.  
The sixth one creaks.  
John.  
His face appears in the darkened doorway, lines prevalent and deeply engrained in his features.  
I sit up. I stand. I know, already, but I don’t want to.  
“What happened?”  
His blue eyes give mine a wide berth, making their way to where his worn armchair still sits. Not difficult to notice. Does he realize? If he does, it doesn’t register on his face.  
“I- we, we decided we- we’re done.” His voice is what causes my stomach to drop, more than his words. Low, quiet. Broken. I need to say something, probably. That would be the right thing to do. I’m not sure what else there is.  
“You’ll want to spend the night here.” Not a question. We don’t need them.  
For the first time, he meets my gaze. Gratitude is evident across his face. He doesn’t want to talk, for now. I don’t need him to.  
“Yeah, if that’s- alright with you.” The uncertainty there makes my throat hurt. I’d always assumed emotion was separate from physical pain. Strange.  
“Yes, of course it’s alright. My doctor is always welcome here.” I try a small smile. People seem to be comforted by smiles.  
The corners of John’s lips twitch upwards for a second. “Right.” He pauses. “Thank you, Sherlock.”  
I nod. He must know that he is welcome.   
“Where”- he begins, looking around as though lost.   
“Your- the- bedroom upstairs is open.” I wonder if he will notice the clean sheets, carefully tucked in to the mattress. He probably will.  
“Great.” There is little emotion behind his words. Everything is being held inside, a tidal wave waiting to break. He needs to be alone.   
“Sherlock, I know I’m asking a lot, but I just need time to myself, for a bit. I’m sor”-  
“Don’t be,” I interject, motioning for him to go upstairs. Years of living with me, and now he’s apologizing for wanting to be alone. I won’t allow it.   
After a moment’s hesitation, he nods and exits the room. His bedroom door clicks shut, and I sink into the familiar cushions of my chair. My eyes drift closed, the crackle of the fire and the echoes of the darkened city fading into the background.   
There are no cases to solve, no puzzles to disassemble.  
My mind is centered on John. When he decides to leave his room, will he want to talk? That’s what people usually do, when faced with a problem, instead of actually thinking. But John isn’t most people.  
Still.   
Discussion is inevitable. And I must admit that I desire to know what made him finally give up on Mary.  
That curiosity disgusts me. Mary was a liar, but she made John happy. That was enough. It was.  
I had convinced myself of that. I could never ask for anything more.

An indefinite period of time later, I hear the bedroom door creak. My eyes crack open at the sound. Shadows still dominate the room, though the fire has burnt down to embers.  
Both of us know the other never fell asleep.   
Upon re-entering the sitting room, John appears haggard and the lines in his face are, if anything, deeper. But his eyes meet mine readily this time. He will make it through this, eventually.

John inspects the refrigerator, and we agree to call in takeaway. He seems disappointed by the lack of edible food in the flat. I shouldn’t have let him go through the kitchen yet. My eating habits will only worry him. John should not worry about me.   
The food arrives. No one has commented on the hour, though the sun won’t rise for a couple hours. London’s heart keeps beating through the night.   
John needs to eat.  
We set the food on the half-empty table, in front of the two chairs facing each other amidst the array of papers and test tubes. I know John doesn’t mind the clutter, so I don’t attempt to clear it. A moment of silence passes, not as comfortable as our silences used to be. Should be. Finally, I decide I’ll have to be the one to break it, for once.  
“What made you decide to leave?”  
John stiffens. Not the right words.  
“No, I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it. You don’t need to.” I hasten to open a carton of rice, taking a seat at the table so John will sit too. He does, then closes his eyes for a moment.  
“No, it’s fine. I should tell you.”  
“Okay.”  
Another moment passes.  
“It was something she said, not even that big of a thing, really. But suddenly I just realized that she will never be telling me the truth. And I just couldn’t”- he stops. I wait.  
“I suppose I’ll have to go back and get my things. I wasn’t exactly thinking ahead when I left.”  
Thinking ahead.  
I blink.  
Then it hits me: John wants to stay here. Move back in, permanently. To Baker Street. Just like it was before.  
I suck in a breath, beat down the vile hope sparking in my chest. Of course it won’t be like before. Not for John. He loved Mary, once. Still might. How would I know?  
It will be different for me too. A jolt of panic flashes through me. Uncomfortably warm. I’ll have to tell him, this time. The realization creeps down my spine. Does he know? It doesn’t matter. I’ll have to say it.  
Reality drags me out of my mind. John is watching me, waiting for a reply.  
“Yes, I suppose you will.”  
He nods. Stands. He hasn’t eaten a bite. I get up as well, motioning to the refrigerator. Maybe we will eat later.  
With the food filling the empty shelves of the refrigerator, John turns to go upstairs again. I can’t wait, though. This discussion can’t, or it will never happen. And that would be the end of us. So I grab his wrist before he makes it through the doorway.  
I almost let go at the shock of it. Almost. John’s face whips around. Why does he look so frightened?  
“Sherlock?” His voice is wary.  
How do I say this? I feel like I’m suffocating on the words.   
“Listen, if you want to move back in, I need to- to tell you something.”  
“What is it?”  
“John, there’s something I’ve never said. I think you might know already.” I remember that he noticed my face at the wedding, the way I couldn’t keep the smile in place after my unexpected deduction. And I desperately hope he doesn’t see the parallels in this conversation to another one we’ve had, the one in which I again failed to say it. This. I’m afraid I’ll fail again.  
John’s face, if anything, looks more fearful. His eyes flash down to where my hand is still clasped around his wrist. I instantly drop it. Heat flashes through my cheeks. Words fall from my mouth.  
“I’ve never really had a friend before I met you, and you being my best friend means everything to me, and I know you’ll always be here for me as a friend. John, I- I have no idea what it normally feels like- what it’s supposed to feel like- but we’re not normal. And if you’re going to be living here, with me, you deserve to know. So.” In all the words I’ve just spilled out, I’m hoping some of them were the right ones. “John Watson, I think I- love you.”  
The heat that had been retained in my cheeks now spreads across my face and down my neck. I know- I’m sure- that once, before my fall, before Mary, a long time ago, John looked at me the way I am looking at him now. It was obvious, for anyone who wished to observe. I think my expression must be obvious too.  
John swallows. There is pink spreading across his face, too, but he doesn’t look entirely surprised. He isn’t completely unobservant, after all.  
No one speaks. We are frozen. I begin to regret saying anything, wanting to fade into the dark corners of the flat, when John speaks.  
“Sherlock… thank you, for… telling me.”  
More silence.  
“This is… bad timing, John,” I continue, hating myself for asking this of him after everything I’ve put him through, but unable to stop the words. “But I need to know if- if you’ve ever felt the same.”

“I- I’m not”-   
“Gay. Yes. As you’ve enunciated clearly to everyone we’ve ever encountered.” Anger wins out. It always does.   
“Would it really have been so unimaginable, that you couldn’t even allow someone the thought that you were in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”  
“it isn’t you, Sherlock”-  
“For god’s sakes, John, if I had never left, if those two years had never happened, where would we be?”  
This gives him pause. It’s the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times. I still don’t know the answer.   
Something changes in John’s expression, the panicked look of a cornered animal replaced with one of determination.  
He steps forward.  
Grabs my hand with the one I dropped earlier.  
My breath stops, my pulse races.  
“Fine,” he says. “Fine.”  
The distance between us vanishes, our lips crash together.  
I am brought to life.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first fanfictions, and I just felt like getting some of the feels after His Last Vow out.


End file.
